


the night we met

by brittyelaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Death, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Season/Series 15, Song Lyrics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittyelaine/pseuds/brittyelaine
Summary: But this one’s different, and he knows it.  He can feel it.  It’s deep and painful, etched into the very core of his soul.  He knows there’s no coming back from this.  And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	the night we met

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a HOT MINUTE since I've written fic. I'm back on my bullshit. Hello, it's nice to be back!
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr!](https://brittywritesstuff.tumblr.com)
> 
> Title and lyrics from [The Night We Met](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ) by Lord Huron. 
> 
> Inspired by that S15 production post this week. Y'all know the one.

Dean falls back against the cold brick wall, trying desperately to catch his breath. He can’t. His heart is racing; his breathing is shallow; the oxygen in his brain is running thin. He feels like he might pass out. Or maybe die. Maybe that will be better. Because this can’t be real. This can’t be real. 

The tears on his face roll downward, salty on his lips. He tastes the copper of blood, but he’s not sure where the blood is coming from. He’s not sure whose it is, and he’s not sure he wants to know.

“Take me back,” he whispers to himself, his voice rougher than usual. The screaming, the tears, the raw fear and pure, complete decimation of his heart have taken their toll. “I-- fuck. Please.” He gasps for breath again; it’s shaky and desperate, but his lungs can’t seem to fill up enough to feel normal again. Fitting, he thinks, because if this is real, nothing will ever feel normal again. He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to -- because there’s no one listening anymore. 

Dean’s not sure how he manages, but he pushes himself to his feet. He’s never been a small guy, but suddenly it feels like his legs can’t handle the weight of him. He presses his hands to the wall, his palms flat against the brick as he ducks his head for a moment, trying to steady himself. 

Sam’s hand closes around his arm, and Dean shrugs him off. “Dean, let me--”

“I’m fine, Sammy.”

“You’re--”

“I said I’m fine.” It comes out a lot more forceful than intended, but fuck it. He’s not in the mood for Sam’s coddling. As if to prove a point, he shoves off the wall and squares his shoulders, meeting his brother’s eyes. “I said I’m fine,” he repeats. It’s quieter. Broken. But his defiance and stubbornness is all he’s got left. And by the way Sam’s looking at him; the tone of his voice… it means this is real. It means that really just fucking happened. And he can’t. He just can’t. 

“Dean--”

Dean ignores him. He turns, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the drink cart as he passes, and trudges his way to his room. The bunker is in shambles, but he can’t bring himself to care much about it right now. Nothing really matters much now. Nothing is ever really gonna matter much now. 

The door closing behind him sounds louder than it should. He leans back against it and closes his eyes as his head drops back against the wood. “Fuck. Fuck.” Opening his eyes, he lifts his head and looks around his room, like that’s going to help him at all. His eyes fall on his desk, and he pushes off the door to drag himself toward it. He takes a swig of whiskey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching for the cassette tape beside the lamp. 

_“It’s a gift,” Cas had told him so proudly. “I’d like for you to keep it.”_

Dean closes his eyes for a second, inhaling sharply at the memory. When he opens them, he runs his fingers over the tape, admiring Cas’s delicate writing: For Dean. The tape is full of terrible love songs Dean secretly enjoys. 

_“Music is a love language, isn’t it?”_

_“Yeah, I guess it is--”_

_“And you enjoy music--”_

_“‘Course I do, Cas--”_

_“So I’ve compiled a selection of songs to express love.”_

_Dean’s face hurt from the huge smile. “You made me a mixtape?”_

_“Well, I had some assistance. I listened to a vast variety of songs and compiled the list. Then Sam helped me assemble the tape.”_

_Dean huffed, his smile somehow growing wider. “You romantic bastard. Who woulda thought?” He grabbed Cas’s face and kissed him hard. They made love that night to the soundtrack of Cas’s tape._

“Goddamn it, Cas,” Dean gasps. He grabs the tape from the desk and shoves it into the tape player. Knocking back another swig of whiskey, he hardly winces at the burn and shrugs out of his overshirt. He falls back on the bed, not bothering to kick off his boots. He hears the hissing of the tape before the music starts, and when it does, he takes another gasping breath, tears slipping past his lashes. 

**_Shall I stay?  
Would it be a sin?  
If I can’t help falling in love with you?_ **

“Fuck,” he cries, throwing an arm over his face. “Just take me back.”

_“Do you recall the night we met?” Cas turned on his side, one arm tucked beneath his pillow._

_Dean turned his head to look at him, raising his eyebrows incredulously. “You reminiscing’ about me stabbing you?”_

_Cas smiled, and Dean felt that familiar warmth spread through his chest. Cas’s smile was such a rare sight, but Dean was the one who saw it most. And he loved that. He loved that he got to be the one. “Not about that, particularly. But if someone had told me then what would be, I--”_

_Dean turned on his side, his hand closing around the hinge of Cas’s jaw. “I would’ve said you’re fuckin’ crazy.” He shifted closer, admiring that breathtaking blue as their eyes met. “But this, you ‘n’ me--”_

_“Fate,” Cas finished quietly. Dean kissed him slowly, taking his time. It was a luxury with Cas. To express himself gently. Slowly. In a way that no other aspect of his life allowed him. It was perfect._

Dean rolls to his side, still clutching the bottle of whiskey. He pulls a pillow against his chest and closes his eyes; his tears soaking into the white pillow case. “Just take me back,” he whispers, hoping beyond anything his prayer gets through to someone, somewhere. “I don’t care what I gotta go through. I’ll take the fuckin’ apocalypse again. Anytime, anywhere. Just fuckin’ take me back. Please,” he cries.

He knows, deep down, that it’s useless. He knows there’s no do-overs this time. He knows this is the end of the line. The finale. But Dean’s spoiled. One might not think that, when examining his life, but he is. Because death has never been the end for him. Countless demons and deities have pointed it out to him over the years. But it’s spoiled him. If someone he loves dies, all he has to do is threaten someone or something or wait long enough, and they come back. 

But this one’s different, and he knows it. He can feel it. It’s deep and painful, etched into the very core of his soul. He knows there’s no coming back from this. And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do. How do normal people do this? How do normal people live with this feeling? How do normal people pick up and carry on, knowing the other half of your soul is gone forever? 

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he whispers into the dark. “Just take me back to the night we met.” 

_**When the night was full of terrors  
And your eyes were filled with tears  
When you had not touched me yet  
Oh, take me back to the night we met** _

_**I had all and then most of you  
Some and now none of you  
Take me back to the night we met  
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do  
Haunted by the ghost of you  
Take me back to the night we met** _


End file.
